The Single Guy’s Survival Guide: Your Restaurant’s Christmas Party

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The first hour after you arrive is chill enough. You’re all doing the mingling thing, having a good time. You can’t help but feel that there’s sort of this low-level prom thing going on, because while everyone isn’t quite dressed like they’re at a wedding, they’re all wearing clothes that you’re not used to seeing them in (except for the hostess). Part of it is seasonal. It’s wintertime and you’re not used to seeing nearly as much skin, so that short little red dress one of the busgirls walked in with is a whole lot more interesting than the short shorts she wore all summer, despite the cocktail number covering at least an additional 3 inches of leg. Fortunately for you, one of your co-workers, who we’ll call “Betty”, see’s your eyes doing the full sensor scan and takes the opportunity to mention that she’s still in high school.

Of course, “Betty” isn’t looking out for the little sexpot’s virtue. She’s starts to chat you up in a bid to add a sequel to that 48-hour summer fling you had. Of course, she has to chat you up with her BFF “Veronica”, who you’d really like to get naked, but the only way that’s going to happen tonight is if all three of you get really, really drunk…which could actually be an option, but one you’ll reserve until later.

So you manage to break away from those to for a bit, only to come across the four guys at the party who have made the mission of the evening fall less about tail and far more about killing the restaurants supply of Fireball. There’s only about three bottles left, so this could actually happen and you decide to help them on their mission because after all…only good things happen when you pound Fireball.

Stepping away from the bros, you get yourself a glass of eggnog, which, as best as you can tell, was probably alcoholic to begin with…and then got spiked…twice. As a conga line starts, you decide to duck outside for a cigarette.

In the smoking corner you find…the owner’s wife. ‘No big deal’, you think…but then she starts talking about how she’d doing Herbalife and hitting the gym and keeps asking you to feel how toned her legs are and all of a sudden you realize that no matter how you played this evening out in your head, you have done nothing to prepare yourself for this scenario and…wow…for a 49 year-old, Mrs. H has some seriously toned thighs. But for as many cougars as you might have played prey for, this is actually a situation that carries more risk than you’re used to dealing with in a genuinely Fireball-ed state, so you give yourself the Vincent Vega speech and when a few of your co-workers step out to join you in the cold, you extricate yourself from the situation.

Naturally, as you walk back inside, you catch a glimpse of Mr. H walking out off the back office with that one female bartender he’s been spending an awful lot of time consulting with and the all the pieces for this one section of the evening start to come together and you’re remind yourself never to get married while you’re in this field.

Fortunately, you get yourself into a conversation with one of the more attractive older waitresses about how the whole Christmas thing is a crock, how romance is a crock and how cute her dogs are. This allows you to realize how much you’d been enjoying the evening until right that minute. You take her back to your boys who are now working on that last bottle of Fireball and bounce to the other side of the bar where “Veronica” is taking selfies with a super-cute chick you’ve never seen before who’s rocking one of those short haircuts where you can’t figure out if it’s a punk thing or a baby dyke thing. Either way, your inner-Beavis likes it.

Unfortunately, things get awkward when you start letting your inner-Beavis do the talking and though you really don’t know what set them off, “Veronica”, punk chick and “Betty” are all end up pissed off with you for something that you hope they won’t remember as well as you can’t remember.

Time for more of that eggnog. While you’re pouring yourself a drink, that busser in the red number gets herself one. When you tell her she can’t because she’s too young, she replies that she’s “Twenty-two, thank you very much”. ” Betty, that bitch.

Having too much alcohol in your thought stream to make any more conversation, you’re about to lean in for a kiss when all of a sudden the lights come on, the music stops and a very agitated Mrs. H starts screaming at everyone about how they’re all screwing her husband…before falling face-first into the Fireball crew, who have just finished that last bottle.


Well, that really killed the party, but your new apparently-legal friend asks if you “want to get out of here”, which you figure means the same to her generation as it does to yours. “Definitely.”


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Tristan's just this guy, ya know?